On Cigars and Sweet Wine; On Religious School Shabbat and
Sandy Hook – A Reflection
Saturday night – motza’ei Shabbat – coming out of
Shabbat. Every motza’ei Shabbat, I go out on the patio. I light up a fine
cigar, I have something to drink (sometimes plain, like water or club soda; sometimes
sweet like ginger ale or cranberry cocktail; sometimes sweet alcohol, like a
highland Scotch whiskey or port, or, tonight, a glass of sweet marsala), and I
think. I think about the Shabbat that was, about the week that was, about the
week to come – what was, what is, what will be.
Friday evening was Religious School and Family Shabbat.
The children and the rest of the congregation sang so sweetly – traditional prayers,
non-traditional songs. They smiled, we laughed, their parents and grandparents
and the members of the congregation kvelled – they were proud of these kids,
their learning and their joy. It was quite beautiful – Shabbat evening as it
should always be. Relaxing, peaceful, happy – that is Shabbat. No work, no
cares – a celebration of accomplishment and relaxation. “Shavat v’yinafash” –
He rested and He was refreshed – literally, His soul was restored. That is
Shabbat. The parents and children came up on the bimah, and we blessed them and
each other. “May the Lord bless you and guard you; May the Lord’s countenance
shine upon you and may He be gracious to you; May the Lord’s countenance be
turned to you, and may He grant you peace”. That, too, is Shabbat – the Day of
Rest and Peace and Blessing.
When you smoke a good cigar, as it burns down, the
flavors change. If the cigar goes out, as it does sometimes, it can be relit –
and enjoyed down to the very nub. It can last a long time - in this case, more
than 90 minutes. That is the life of the cigar. That is how human life should
be – long-lasting, reignited occasionally, changing and complex to the very
end. The marsala – dark, sweet – a product of nature improved upon and enjoyed
by humans. A puff here – a sip there. Thinking, looking – the moon, the stars,
the lights of planes in the distance, the occasional meteor – there was one
tonight. The glass falls from my hand and shatters. The deep red wine soaks
into the concrete – the shards of glass are a reproach. “Lo ta’amod al dam re’akha” – Do not stand idly by the blood
of your neighbor. But it is dark and I am tired – I’ll clean up in the
morning, in the light of day. I pour another glass, and drink. And think. And
pray.
Shabbat morning – a day of complexity. Congregants
davening, chanting the Torah and the haftarah – I am glad for these people,
that others are serious and committed. We sing, we pray, we learn Torah
together. Then comes a moment of – dread. I chant “El Malei Rachamim” – God Full
of Compassion. I say the names of the dead – the parents of the congregants
observing their yahrzeits, and the names of 26 children and adults who were
murdered a year ago today – today is their yahrzeit - pointless sacrifices on
the altar of the relentless American god known as “The Gun”. “We and our
society are suffering from a peculiar madness,” I say. “Those 26 are less than
one tenth of one percent of the 30,000 who died in the United States this year
because of gun violence.” I think of the folk songs of my youth – “When will
they ever learn?” – “The answer is blowing in the wind.”
I pray that there will more and more Religious School
Shabbatot – children singing and praying and accepting the great gift that is a
day of rest and reflection. I pray that there will be a time, bimheirah b’yameinu
b’karov – speedily, in our days, very soon – when parents will not recite
Kaddish, when rabbis and congregations will not recite El Malei Rachamim over
children sacrificed on the altar of the gun. God will not bring this about. But
with the strength of God, we will. And so I pray.
